The Trail of The Badger: A Story of the Colorado Border Thirty Years Ago. Hamp Sidford Frederick

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      The Trail of The Badger: A Story of the Colorado Border Thirty Years Ago

      PREFACE

      In writing the adventures of the boys who followed "The Trail of the Badger" down into that part of Colorado where the fringes of two discordant civilizations overlapped each other – the strenuous Anglo-Saxon and the easygoing Mexican – the author has endeavored to show how two healthy, enterprising young fellows were able to do their little part in that great work of Desert Reclamation whose importance is now as well understood by the general public as it always has been by those whose lot has been cast to the west of meridian one hundred and five.

      To some it may appear that the boys are ahead of their time, but to the author, whose introduction to "the arid region" dates back thirty years and more, remembering the conditions then prevailing, it seems no more than natural that they should recognize the unusual opportunity presented to them of making a career for themselves, and even that they should be dimly conscious of the fact that if they "could make two ears of corn, or two blades of grass, to grow upon a spot of ground where only one grew before" they would be deserving well of the infant community of which they formed a part.

      That in making this attempt they would meet with adventures – in fact, that they could hardly avoid them – the author, recalling his own experiences in that country at that time, feels well assured.

      CHAPTER I

      Dick Stanley

      "Look out! Look out! Behind you, man! Behind you! Jump quick, or he'll get you!"

      It was a boy, a tall, spare, wiry young fellow of sixteen, who shouted this warning, his voice, in its frantic urgency, rising almost to a shriek at the end; and it was another boy, also tall, spare and wiry, to whom the warning was shouted. The latter turned to look behind him, and for one brief instant his whole body stiffened with fear – his very hair stood on end. Nor is this a mere figure of speech: the boy's hair did actually stand on end: he could feel it "creep" against the crown of his hat. I know– for I was the boy!

      That I had good reason to be "scared stiff" I think any other boy will admit, for, not thirty feet below me, coming quickly and silently up the rocks, his little gleaming eyes fixed intently upon me, was a grim old cinnamon bear, an animal which, though less dangerous than his big cousin, the grizzly, is quite dangerous enough when he is thoroughly in earnest.

      But for my companion's warning shout the bear would surely have caught me, and my story would have come to an end at the very beginning of the first chapter.

      It was certainly an awkward situation, about as awkward, I should think, as any boy ever got himself into; and how I, Frank Preston, lately a schoolboy in St. Louis, happened to find myself on a spur of Mescalero Mountain, in Colorado, with a cinnamon bear charging up the rocks within a few feet of me, needs a word of explanation.

      I will therefore go back a few steps in order to give myself space for a preliminary run before jumping head-first into my story, and will tell not only how I came to be there, but will relate also the curious incident which first brought me into contact with my future friend, Dick Stanley; an incident which, while it served as an introduction, at the same time gave me some idea of the resourcefulness and promptness of action with which his very peculiar training had endowed him.

      It was in the last week of October, 1877, that I was seated one evening in my room in St. Louis, very busy preparing my studies for next day, when the door opened suddenly and in walked my Uncle Tom.

      When, at the age of seven, I had been left an orphan, Uncle Tom, my mother's brother, though himself a bachelor, had taken charge of me, and with him I had lived ever since. He and I, I am glad to say, were the best of friends – regular chums – for, though twenty years my senior, he seemed in some respects to be as young as myself, and our relations were more like those of elder and younger brother than of uncle and nephew.

      Uncle Tom was rather short and rather fat, and he was moreover one of the jolliest of men, being blessed with a disposition which prompted him always to see the bright side of things, no matter how dark and threatening they might look. Having at a very early age been pitched out into the world to "fend for himself," and having by square dealing and hard work done remarkably well, he had imbibed the idea that book-learning as a means of getting on in the world was somewhat overrated; an idea which, right or wrong – and I think myself that Uncle Tom carried it rather too far – was to have a decided effect in shaping my own career.

      As it was against the rule, laid down by Uncle Tom himself, for any one to disturb me at my studies, I naturally looked up from my books to ascertain the cause of the intrusion, when, with a cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, he came bulging in, half filling the little room.

      That there was something unusual in the wind I felt sure, and my guardian's first act went far to confirm my suspicion, for, removing one hand from his pocket, he quietly reached forward and with his finger tilted my book shut.

      "Put 'em away," said he. "You won't need them for a month or more."

      As the fall term of school was then in full swing, this declaration was a good deal of a surprise to me, as any one will suppose, and doubtless I showed as much in my face.

      "I have a scheme in my head, Frank," said he, with a knowing wag of that member, in reply to my look of inquiry.

      "I know that," I replied, laughing; for there never was a moment when Uncle Tom had not a scheme in his head of one sort or another.

      "You spider-legged young reptile!" cried he, with perfect good humor, but at the same time shaking a threatening finger at me. "Don't you dare to laugh at my schemes; especially this one. For this is a brand-new idea, and a very important one – to you. I'm leaving to-morrow night for Colorado."

      "Are you?" I cried, a good deal surprised by this sudden announcement. "When did you decide upon that?"

      "To-day. I got a letter this afternoon from my friend, Sam Warren, the assayer, written from Mosby – if you know where that is."

      I shook my head.

      "I didn't suppose you did," remarked Uncle Tom. "It is a new mining camp on one of the spurs of Mescalero Mountain in Colorado, and in the opinion of Sam Warren – my old schoolmate, you know – it has a great future before it. So he has written me that if I have the time to spare I had better come out and take a look at it."

      Uncle Tom's business was that of a mining promoter, the middle man between the prospector and the capitalist, a business in which his ability and his honorable methods had gained for him an enviable reputation.

      "So you have decided to go out, have you?" said I.

      "Yes," he replied. "I leave to-morrow evening – and you are coming with me."

      As may be imagined, I opened my eyes pretty widely at this unfolding of the "brand-new idea."

      "What do you mean?" I asked.

      "Look here, Frank, old chap," said he, seating himself on the edge of the table and becoming confidential. "You've stuck to your books very well – if anything, too well. Now, I've had my eye on you ever since the hot weather last summer, and it strikes me you need a change – you are too pale and altogether too thin."

      Being fat and "comfortable" himself, Uncle Tom was disposed to regard with pity any one, like myself, whose framework showed through its covering.

      "But – " I began; when Uncle Tom headed me off.

      "Now СКАЧАТЬ